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Cold Counsel
By Chris Sharp Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2017 Chris Sharp
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-9329-6
CHAPTER 1
Witch of the Iron Wood
HEAVY FOG CLUNG to wet earth beneath the trees. Thick-trunked conifers climbed high, and the dense canopy of needles and branches blocked the light even on the rare day when it broke through the clouds. It was a forest of gloom and chill, never fully dry, and the dappled light never held sway for long against the lurk of the shadows. Aside from the prevalent centipedes, spiders, and snakes, even the animals tended to give this section of the forest a wide berth. The ponderous creaking of the trees was at most times the only sound to be heard, punctuated occasionally with the squawk of a passing raven or the far-off howl of wolves.
Slud's feet sank into muck with every step, following the same worn trail from the woods, through the bog, to the river, and back every day for almost two decades. For more than half those years, fetching the water had taken him a full afternoon of heaving and cursing his way back up the hill to the hut. He'd grown large and strong since then — able now to carry the burden with relative ease.
He stopped at the root-strewn bank and swung the pine beam off his shoulder before lowering the oak barrel that dangled from a chain at the far end into the water. It filled, and he braced his legs to counter the heavy pull of the current. As always, he looked downstream and imagined where the river might take him were he to follow its path. As always, he was brought back to the moment when the fullness of the barrel threatened to carry him in.
His knees went to the mud, and the beam returned to his shoulder. With a grunt, he braced the wood against the thick pad of scar tissue in the crevice of his nape, and stood with only his long arms outstretched across the beam to counter the weight. A spill of water soaked the bank as the beam bent. He breathed in the pain, just as Aunt Agnes had taught — the discomfort gave him strength now.
His dark gray-green skin was a crowded tapestry of scars. There were burns and lashings from when he had failed in his lessons and countless "battle wounds" from the ceaseless weapons drills she had put him through, but many others were self-inflicted. His palms were dotted with raised circles from willful jabs with a sharp stick, and the fine white razor cuts down his arms were so numerous that they'd become a work of art.
The wet thud of his heavy footfalls sounded again through the woods, and for a moment even the creaking of the trees hushed before his approach. Sometimes, it seemed like the land itself was waiting for him to do something; the feeling that eyes were upon him never fully went away. He broke his focus from the exquisite pain to scan the fog, but of course no one was there. No one ever came to this forgotten crease of the mountain, and he knew that his aunt was back in the hut, preparing for his return.
Agnes had been growing angrier. Every day her temper seemed to flare a bit hotter, and her once ponderous movements now carried an erratic edge. That morning, she'd lashed out with a claw and raked his cheek when he'd accidentally dropped a bowl of swamp onions in the fire. Just to spite her, he'd plucked the smoldering bulbs from the coals and eaten them, one after the other, before belching up ash. Agnes had laughed then, but she'd carried a hint of menace throughout the day. It would soon be time for Slud to go, though he did not know where.
The ache in his shoulder and the burn in his thighs brought him back to the climb. Each step out of the bog was a test of exertion, and he was just reaching the steepest stretch of trail. His leg pounded into rock as he lifted himself past the tumble of a little stream. The barrel bounced cruelly behind him, and another spill leapt out to join the tiny waterfall. He inhaled deeply through his crooked nose and let the pain settle before huffing it back out between jutting tusks. He stepped again, and rose to the next shelf.
The bog viper that had coiled there unraveled in an instant. Its jaws unhinged and attached to the top of his foot before retracting and striking once more. Slud looked down at the startled beast as its long black body skittered back and hovered to deliver another dose. He breathed in the new sting and raised the damaged foot high. The snake got in one last bite to his heel before he crushed it into the earth with enough force to launch its skull out of its snout.
Yellow liquid dribbled from the four bloody holes in the top of Slud's foot. He gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly — stooping to peel his attacker from the rock. The foot was already starting to go numb, but he breathed in again, unhurried and unworried. With a grunt he rose tall once more, slung the viper across his unoccupied shoulder, and kept climbing.
AUNT AGNES PICKED Slud's dead skin from beneath her nails from when she'd clawed him that morning and dropped the scrapings into the iron pot that rested in the fire. The little gray flecks vanished into the muddy brew, and an unmelodious hum hung in her throat as she pondered what else to add. In an unlikely burst of movement, her bent and withered form crossed the room to dig through the cluttered shelves with a rough clanking of pottery and glass. Her hand emerged clutching a half-drunk bottle of spoiled pine-ale. She swiveled to dump the leftovers into the pot, and hummed again.
The hum stopped short. From outside, she heard the stomping of the troll lad. Back so soon? He's grown strong. She cocked her ear as he mounted the steps to the door with a hitch in his gait. But is he ready?
He swept back the drapery of old wolf furs that served as a door and ducked to carry the sloshing barrel over the threshold with a final grunt. Still clutching the water, he stood to the high ceiling as his spine gave a loud crack. His beard and hair were slick with sweat, but his breath remained steady. From beneath the heavy brow, he set his dark gaze upon Agnes with the same challenge that she'd seen in him as a babe. It was like the mountain itself was looking at her — untamed, uncaring, and immovable. All of her work and teaching had been in service of bringing that to the surface; molding him into the force he was born to be.
"Why do you limp? Is the water so heavy that bones break?" she asked, trying to sound stern, though her tired voice betrayed her. She was ashamed in that moment of the weakness that had gripped her form. "Give a splash to the pot, and stir."
Slud leaned toward the fire and poured some water into the pot with a loud hiss and a plume of steam. But rather than putting the barrel down in the corner as he'd been taught, he brought his maw to the rim and gulped loudly.
"I did not tell you to drink!" she snapped. "Do you wish the lash again?"
He ignored her for a last few gulps, and then dropped the barrel at his feet. "Slud's tongue was dry." His voice was a low grumble, like boulders grinding together.
It was only then that she noticed the mature bog viper that was strung over his shoulder, leaking blood across his back. She'd seen a bite from such a snake down a cave bear in minutes. "Are you bit?"
"Yeah, but Slud bit back."
She stepped closer and dropped her eyes to the fresh punctures in his foot. "Two bites?"
"Tree." He smiled. "Slud's heel's da last ting it saw er tasted."
"Sit down before you fall, boy," Aunt Agnes suggested with gentle hands coming to his aid. A swell of mother's love returned.
"Slud's good," he said, shaking her off. He dipped a finger into the boiling brew and stirred with a slow inhale through his nose, just like she'd shown him. The clawed digit came back out steaming with brown sludge. He licked it off with a frown. "Tastes like shit."
"Tell me what you feel of the venom?" she pressed, unable to mask her worry.
"Slud's foot tingled 'n' den stopped. Slud was t'irsty, 'n' den he drank. Now, Slud's hungry." He looked back at the gurgling pot. "But dis, he don't wanna eat."
Aunt Agnes clapped her gnarled hands together with glee. "Unfazed by the strongest poison, yes, yes!" She appraised him with pride — he'd been molded well, twice the height of the tallest horse and made of dense muscle, thick bone, and sinew. Even among the trolls of the ancient world, she'd rarely seen his physical match. But it was what he contained within that made him truly special.
She grabbed the snake's tail and pulled. "Now we shall see how you fare against charms, yes? All your strength will be useless if a few whispers from the elves make you their puppet." She squeezed the viper's mangled head as its blood spilled into the brew before hanging it on the meat rack for later. Just about done. Then we see how strong you really are.
Agnes moved quickly again, crossing the room to retrieve the final ingredient she'd gathered on her far walk that morning. She was giddy for the fast-approaching chance to unveil her true form after it had been hidden away for so long. She'd forgotten how it felt. More clanking at another shelf, and she came away with an earthen jar covered in tight-wrapped leather. She gave it a shake and heard a displeased screech within as she returned fireside.
With a finger-blade, she sliced the leather covering and buried her hand inside the jar — coming back out with a terrified little pixie in her grip.
"Where'd ya get dat?" asked Slud, smacking his lip against a tusk.
"It's no matter, boy. Pay attention."
The pixie shouted an angry hex at Agnes, but she chuckled as she flicked it in the head and flipped it over to pluck the papery little dragonfly wings out of its back. She handed one to Slud. "Chew it up and spit into the pot." She jammed the other into her own mouth and started chewing as the pixie screamed in her hand.
Agnes had eaten pixies before, but the wings were far from the best part. She spit the mashed pulp into the brew and motioned for her adopted son to do the same. Afterward, his eyes lingered on the writhing little figure.
To test his speed, she flung the squirming morsel rag-dolling toward him. His long arm shot out like the viper he'd just killed, and the claws of his thumb and forefinger pierced the pixie. He held it up and examined it closely as it cursed and shook. It looked like a tiny naked elf, dirty and skinny, with a crop of mosslike hair. He opened his mouth wide and tossed it between his tusks. A smile bloomed across his wide face as he chewed with a sharp pop and a crunch.
Agnes stirred the brew with a wooden ladle and raised a full steaming spoonful toward him. "Now this, yes?"
The smile faded, but he took the ladle as directed.
"Swallow it down. And then another scoop after." She clapped her hands with an eager grin and backed toward the cramped little room where she slept. Her nest of pine needles and sticks jutted from the opening. As always, no light escaped from within.
SLUD HAD NEVER been past the doorjamb. He wasn't sure if it was a lingering effect of the poison, but it seemed like Aunt Agnes was going weird on him again. He hadn't seen those rotten teeth break into a genuine smile in years. Seeing her withered old body bound around the room with such enthusiasm looked wrong. She clapped her hands again and martialed her best attempt at a laugh, but it came out sounding more like a hiss.
"Eat up now," she reminded him before slipping into the darkness of her hole.
Slud didn't like it. He was already snake-bit and exhausted, and had no patience for one of her tests right now, but he took a meaty slurp from the ladle anyway. The day's potion was thick with root and mushroom, and Slud hated the flavor of both. He ground it up in fist-sized molars and choked it down. She dosed him with mushrooms in every draft of tea and soup he ate, and the crazy it brought out in him had become as normal as sanity. The roots were much stronger. She usually only made him drink that tea once a year on his supposed "birthday," but he'd always been strapped down for those unpleasant trips. He took another slurp, finishing the ladle. As he dipped it back in the pot for more, a long, low wail sounded from within her room.
A violent rustling of the nest loosed a flutter of dried oak leaves. Slud took a third slurp of the crud and eyed the hot poker at his feet — if he had to fight, he would lead with that, and then go for the wood ax in the corner. More than once, she'd sprung at him with claws or a blade to teach him to always stay ready, and she'd proven time and again that she wasn't afraid to give him a good scar if he let down his guard. From her darkened hovel he heard the tinkling of little bells, cut by another keening moan, though this time the voice was not his aunt's, and it carried a lusty tone that raised the hackles on his neck.
The fourth slurp emptied the ladle again and he dropped it back in the pot, taking up the poker instead. He jabbed the red-hot tip into the first fang hole in the top of his foot and breathed it in nice and slow. The lance of agony cut through the poison and drugs in his system, and he felt his body come alive. He exhaled with the second jab, and his attention moved back to the murk beyond the doorway where a faint golden light had begun to gather.
He glanced down again to jab the third hole with another inhale, and this time, when he looked back to the door, a golden woman stepped to the light of the cook fire. Except in pictures drawn by her hand, Slud had never seen a woman outside of Agnes. The breath shot out of him in a gasp. She was naked and flawless — skin, hair, even her eyes shone gold. They bored into him with hunger and power.
"What're ya?" he muttered, stepping back and lifting the poker.
She smiled with plump golden lips and took a step closer. Slud wasn't sure if it was the roots kicking in, but when she moved, the firelight flickered across her skin and made it look like she was wreathed in flame. "I am Gullveig, the Golden Goddess. Kneel at my feet, and I will teach you the magick of the flesh."
Her words tickled across his mind and seemed to echo about the room. His knees started to buckle, but he jammed the hot poker into the fourth hole and found his footing again. For a moment, his head cleared, though his eyes couldn't help but travel down her body.
"Why resist that which you desire?" She slid toward him around the fire. "You have been strong for so long; surrender to your reward."
The room was awash in colors and light that Slud hadn't noticed before. Now the shadows were radiant, and even the gloom of Agnes's nest was no match for his true-seeing gaze. The walls, the ceiling, even the cramped air itself, were alive, breathing and expectant in that moment. The golden woman was the center of it all, the sun that the world revolved around. A spike of longing rose through Slud, and his knees started to shake as a cold sweat rolled down his brow.
"Give me a brood to sprout from my belly, and I shall remind this world of a forgotten age when giants ruled," Gullveig said. "Bow to me; drink of the Golden Goddess."
A tremble shot through Slud, threatening to pull him down. Instead, he set his wounded heel into the coals and cauterized the last bite in freeing pain. "Slud kneels fer none, witch! He'll show dis worl' what was lost hisself!" He swung the poker, and it connected with the side of her beautiful head.
"Yes!" she hissed as a spurt of black blood sprang from her temple. Slud lost control, hitting her again and again, driving her to the earthen floor with brutal abandon. "Yes," she choked out a last time as he rounded the pot and kicked her once perfect body into the fire.
Gullveig flailed and screamed, and the pot went over with a clatter. The golden woman was instantly engulfed in flame as if she'd been made from pine needles and tinder. Sparks flew dangerously about the hovel, and a heavy black smoke rose up toward the hole in the ceiling — too thick to pass as a choking wave spilled back down into the room. Slud coughed and covered his eyes as he stumbled back to the wall with enough force to shake the hut. Through the smoke he thought he saw a golden mist rise up from the coal bed and drift back toward Agnes's room. There were no other remnants of the witch, Gullveig, who'd been there only seconds before.
Though he could not trust his ears, again he heard keening from the nest — this time, agony had replaced lusty joy. The rustling of the sticks resumed, and again the shadows seemed to sink in around the room and come to rest. Slud rubbed his eyes and spied the barrel before him. He fought his way through the smoke and dunked his head in the cold water. The jolt snapped him back to the moment as he remembered the wood ax in the corner. Agnes's tests were rarely over when they seemed, and the heavier effects of the drugs in his system would soon set in.
As he looked up this time, sloppily flinging water, it was his aunt's familiar, withered form that came to the threshold. She gripped a wolf pelt around her wrinkled shoulders like she was ashamed to be seen, even frailer and more bent than she'd been before the coming of the Golden Goddess. She shivered violently, her voice almost too weak to hear.
"Good, my boy ... You're ready." She shrank back toward the darkness of her room. "But now you need to run, and your Aunt Agnes needs to rest."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cold Counsel by Chris Sharp. Copyright © 2017 Chris Sharp. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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